


monsters in the closet

by iron_spider_suit



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Autistic Peter Parker, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Domestic, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Insecure Peter Parker, Mental Health Issues, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Peter, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark is Good With Kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 12:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21136856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iron_spider_suit/pseuds/iron_spider_suit
Summary: Maybe if he keeps repeating it to himself it will feel real: He’s sixteen, not nine. And Hunter isn’t Skip.-Tony and Pepper get a babysitter for Morgan. Peter deals with it… badly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up, although it is all referenced/implied - nothing graphic - childhood sexual abuse _is_ a major part of this story.  


Even as he counts out loud, Peter can hear Morgan run up the stairs, the slide of her bare feet on the wooden flooring and the creak of the closet door, followed by a rustle of fabric and her breathless giggle as she settles in to hide. He takes his time pretending to search, however; walks around the living room and into the kitchen calling for her, like he’s seen Pepper do before. 

When he had grown up he had realised Ben used to do the same, because although Peter would hide in the same place every time in the apartment—in the wicker chest at the foot of their bed—it always took him a while to find Peter, and he would act surprised each time. 

“When did you get so good at hide and seek?” Peter asks Morgan after he finds her hiding place, combing the hair back from her face.

“Oh, I play with Hunter all the time,” Morgan answers. 

“Hunter?” Peter asks as he lets her lead him over to her room so she can pick out a doll or a plushie to sit with her during lunch.

“He’s my bestest friend.” Morgan rushes into her room, and wastes no time throwing aside several dolls and stuffed animals, before she digs out a multicolored snake from under her pillow. “Hunter is big like Uncle Happy, and he has blue hair, and he knows all the songs in the world!” she carries on.

“Right.” Peter bends down to gather a couple of discarded toys to put them back in the box, and Morgan follows his lead. “That’s nice.”

While Peter used to name his plushies things like Mr Penguin and Ducky, Morgan thinks up fanciful, royal sounding names for her dolls, and gives her animals normal people names. Peter guesses Hunter must be the new large panda—currently sitting in the dining room downstairs—Mr Stark had given Morgan for her birthday, and doesn’t think more of it. 

“Did you see my braids?” Morgan swings her head from side to side, showing off her hair, the braids brushing her shoulders.

“It looks so cool, Maguna!” Peter says honestly, smiling when she preens. “Has Dad been practicing?” he asks. His face instinctively scrunches up when he realises his slip of the tongue, but Morgan doesn’t notice. 

“Mommy did it. But Hunter taught her.”

“Oh yeah?” Peter asks with a chuckle, imagining Pepper sitting down with the oversized panda as her instructor. 

Morgan hums, fussing with the little butterfly clips. “From the tablet.”

Fixing the drooping butterfly earns Peter a toothy grin. “Well, it looks great,” he says.

For weeks he remains convinced that Hunter is Morgan’s panda. Then, one afternoon, Mr Stark offers him a plateful of cookies in the lab. 

“I had to hide them from Morgan for two whole days—and you know she has some kind of super sense for finding stuff—so don’t hold back thanking me.”

Morgan finding everything and anything she isn’t supposed to is a long running joke in the household, and Peter can’t hold back a giggle even as he rolls his eyes. ‘Thanks, Mr Stark’ is all he replies, deadpan.

“Hilarious,” Tony counters drily. “Next time I’m just going to eat them. I’m not sure spiderlings should be having cookies anyway.”

“Mr Stark!” Peter protests, laughing, when Tony gives him a poke in the side with a pen just as he is about to take a bite of a cookie. 

Tony chuckles, holding his hands up and letting Peter take the pen from him. “Alright, alright. But only because I don’t want to have to give you the Heimlich.”  He rests a hand on Peter’s head as he sits down again, ruffling his hair.

“These are good.” Perched on his stool, Peter can’t help rocking a little bit in place, almost overwhelmed with the sudden feeling of contentment that sweeps over him, being in the lab, with Tony, and things going well in school and as Spider-man too.  He takes another bite of cookie. “Did you make these?”

“Have at ’em.” Tony pushes the plate closer toward him. “And no. I’m not quite there yet in the kitchen, kid,” he replies with a huff of laughter. “It was Hunter—he bakes too. Honestly, I don’t know where Pepper found this guy. He’s like Mary Poppins.”

_Hunter?_ Stilling, Peter puts the second cookie down. “What?”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “I know it’s a 'really old movie', kid, but you _have_ to have heard of Mary Poppins.”

Peter shakes his head impatiently. “I know Mary Poppins, Mr Stark. But Hunter—Who is he? He’s a real person?”

Tony stares at him, brow furrowed in obvious confusion. “Yes, kid, he’s a real person…?” Bewildered, and unsure if Mr Stark is mad as well as confused, Peter grabs the pen for something to do with his hands. “He’s Morgan’s babysitter… nanny—whatever you call it these days.”

Peter’s stomach drops, fast enough he gets an actual headrush at the words. “You got Morgan a babysitter?” he asks numbly. “When? _Why?_”

Tony squints at him, forehead creasing further as he sets down the cabling he had been working on to give Peter his full attention. It only makes Peter’s growing anxiety worse. “Yes. About a month ago, maybe? Because sometimes Pepper and I need to do grown up things and we need someone to watch Morgan.” 

It had become a thing over time, Tony making sure to answer every question Peter posed, in order. Normally Peter appreciates it, but right now it’s not helping. His heart is beating too fast, and he is sure to break the pen if he keeps fidgeting with the clicker, but he can’t stop. “What about FRIDAY?” 

A corner of Tony’s mouth twitches upwards. “Kiddo, we need someone with arms to watch her, preferably. And who will still function if there’s a power outage.”

“You have FRIDAY on a backup generator, don’t you?” Peter argues, rubbing the top of his thigh with his free palm a few times, hard enough to cause friction burn. 

Tony's mouth evens out again, and Peter wilts further, sure he has upset him this time. “I feel like I’m missing something here, Pete. What is it that’s bothering you?”

Peter presses too hard and the clicker jams. _Shit. _“I just… don’t get why you had to get Morgan a babysitter.”

“What’s wrong with babysitters?” Tony asks, his tone mild. “Jarvis was the best. And Pepper remembers hers fondly too. You ever had one?”

“Yeah.” Peter holds himself very still, swallowing with difficulty, his mouth dry. The cookie he ate feels stuck to his throat. “But,_ I_ could do it. Watch Morgan. I’d keep her safe, Mr Stark. I promise you can trust me.” 

Tony’s face does something Peter doesn’t understand, but he scoots even closer and reaches out to grip Peter’s shoulder. “Kid, I do. And I know you would.” His thumb rubs soothing circles on his shoulder, and his voice is soft. “But you’re a kid yourself, Pete—No, no arguing that, you _are._” 

Peter deflates, bending the clip on the pen back and forth, digging a groove in the pad of his finger. 

“You’re a kid. A teenager at high school, and a superhero—you’ve got more than enough to do. You’re good as Morgan’s brother; you don’t need to be her babysitter too.”

_Brother._ Peter ducks his head, his eyes prickling. A part of him wants to explain—needs to let Tony know, but his throat feels too tight to speak. 

“And you’re always going to be Morgan’s favorite, so don’t worry.”

He forces out a laugh, but it comes out more of a sob. He can’t bring himself to look at Tony, because he’s being such a coward. Peter knows he should explain, he needs to warn him—but that would mean having to tell Tony everything, and he’s so afraid. He doesn’t want to lose this.

Tony pulls him into a hug, cups the back of his head with his hand. “Hey, hey, what’s going on, Spider-baby?”

Peter shakes his head, curls his fingers tight around the pen as he struggles to steady his breathing. He needs to pull himself together. 

“There you go. You’re alright,” Tony murmurs into his hair.

Peter nods, pushing back the memories and the guilt as far as they can go.

It all comes rushing back to the forefront the moment he leaves—and it won’t stop. His anxiety blows up over the next days, and though Peter does his best to hide it from May and his friends, he knows he won’t be able to keep it up for long. The knot in his stomach won’t let him eat, and with his metabolism not eating means dropping weight at dizzying speed. The lack of sleep is easier to manage, but the nightmares are something he hasn’t had to deal with on a regular basis for a couple of years, and by Thursday he’s so overwrought, he almost starts crying into his cereal.

Peter doesn’t tell anyone his plan. He leaves for school on Friday as usual and tries to pretend he isn’t counting down the hours until classes end. With Mr Stark and Miss Potts both out of town, and May leaving for a conference, he knows this is his chance to investigate without having to explain. And he _needs_ to make sure. 

Because sometimes parents just don’t know. May and Ben hadn’t realised for a long time; it was weeks before they started asking if something was wrong, and months before they found out about Skip. Peter doesn’t blame them. He had been terrified of them finding out—Skip had told him what would happen if they ever knew: they would be disgusted, and furious, and they wouldn’t want him anymore. By that time Peter knew that his aunt and uncle had never wanted children, so he had tried to hide what was going on, desperately, for as long as he could. They hadn’t known for almost a year.

He needs to check that Morgan isn’t hiding too. 

Even though he’s expecting it, it still gives him a start when the door opens to reveal a man in his thirties, tall and on the heavier side, with dark hair that glints blue in the afternoon sunlight. 

Peter is well aware he could take him with his super strength without breaking a sweat, but in that moment he feels like nothing but regular Peter Parker—scared in front of a strange older man, who has at least a foot on him and a couple dozen pounds. 

“Hey… you’re Peter, right? I’ve seen a few pictures. I’m Hunter.”

Peter takes the offered hand automatically, though his fingers spasm in the loose grasp. “How’s it going, Pete?” Hunter says, his tone genial. Peter wants to tell him not to call him that. They don’t know each other enough for nicknames—and he doesn’t want to know Hunter at all. “Tony didn’t mention you’d be coming around. Is everything OK?”

“Is it a problem?” Peter demands, full of false bravado, even as he clutches the straps of his backpack. Skip never liked sudden changes in plans. Peter remembers one time May had got out of work earlier than usual, and called to ask if they wanted her to pick up take away on her way home. Skip had been angry at the interruption. Peter had always wondered what would have happened if May hadn’t called ahead. 

But Hunter only steps aside, a small smile on his face. “Of course not. It’s nice to meet you, finally. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Peter grunts for an answer, his shoulders tense as they head down the hall to the living room, Hunter walking behind him.

When Morgan sees him she runs over. “Peter!” she screams, crashing against his legs. 

Peter’s head throbs at the volume and pitch of her voice—stressed and sleep deprived, his senses are even more sensitive than usual. But her unbridled enthusiasm still brings him some measure of relief—he remembers being completely drained during those months, all his energy leeched by Skip or gone into the effort required to hide what was going on. “Hey, Lady Morgana.” He picks her up and holds her close for a second as she throws her arms around his neck.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, pulling back to question him. “Daddy’s not home.”

“I know. I came to see _you_.” 

Morgan makes a pleased sound at that. “Come play with us.”

“What are you playing, then?” Peter asks, keeping a wary eye on Hunter as he shrugs off his backpack and tosses it on the couch.  


“You’re an evil wizard,” Morgan tells him, handing him a plastic wand.

“OK?” Peter turns the wand around a few times, caught in the slow movement of the sparkling liquid inside, before looking up to find Hunter watching him. 

“I’m pretty sure we were just at the grocery shop,” he comments with a grin when he catches Peter’s eye. 

Peter only stares at him distrustfully, lips pursed, and after a moment Hunter returns to his role as some form of grocer prince. 

Normally Morgan and him play board games with Pepper and Tony, or age appropriate video games, or building blocks—games where there’s some sort of structure for Peter to follow. But he can’t keep up now, can’t follow the game at all. Morgan isn’t patient, either, and between the childish chastising and the noise, Peter’s headache only grows worse. 

Finally, with a heavy sigh, Morgan takes his hand, which feels clammy in comparison to her own warm one, and tugs him toward the couch. Urging him to sit, she instructs him to just watch for now. 

Peter drags his backpack onto his lap, and hugs it to his chest. He pulls the zipper up and down in a tight, repetitive motion, feeling like a failure.

Being expelled from the game gives him a chance to really observe Hunter with Morgan, however. He seems good with her, and she obviously adores him—Morgan isn’t shy about making it known who she likes and who she doesn’t. 

All of a sudden the metal pull tab slips under his thumb nail, making him wince. The pain is not much worse than a paper cut, but it has Peter fighting back the sudden urge to cry—all week he has been feeling like he’s holding back a dam. Peter buries his face against the backpack. He’s so _tired_. 

“What—Morgan!” Hunter calls out all of a sudden. 

Tensing, Peter raises his head and straightens in alarm, thrusting his backpack to the side. But Hunter waves a dismissive hand, motioning for him to sit back. 

“Don’t worry, she does that sometimes,” he says.

“I know,” Peter replies snippily. He _does_ know that. He knows Morgan. She’s very independent, and spontaneous, and when she gets an idea in her head she acts on it without stopping to think—just like Tony, Pepper has remarked. He doesn’t need Hunter to tell him that. He doesn’t know her any better than her family. 

He remembers what Skip used to say, after, when he was done: ’No one knows you like I do, Peter. I know you best.’ And Peter had believed him, because it _felt_ true, when for a long time the two of them were the only ones in the whole world who knew what happened when May and Ben weren’t home. 

Morgan runs back into the room after a minute, and straight to Peter, her fish plush bouncing as she carries it held by the tail.

“You’re being weird,” she tells Peter, not unkindly, and shoves the stuffed animal at him. “Here. Seamus.”

“Thanks, Maguna.” Peter takes the stuffed animal, his eyes stinging at the sweet gesture, made even more so because she hasn’t brought him a random one, but the one she must have noticed Peter likes best. He has picked it up more than a few times when they are together, because it’s comfortable to hold, and he likes playing with the fins and how the colors change when you smooth a hand over the soft scales. 

She takes hold of his hand and moves it over the scales, smiling up at him. “Better?”

A lump in his throat, Peter nods. 

“It helps,” Morgan tells Hunter, giving Peter’s hand a last pat before letting go. 

Hunter nods, his expression unreadable. “I’m sure it does.” 

Peter feels out the little stitches on the edges of a fin, his face hot. He is both moved and mortified, and guilt is clogging up his throat too. Morgan is five, too little to have to think about how to make him feel better. This shouldn't be happening. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from bursting into tears when she continues: 

“Daddy says we have to be quiet like spiders when Peter’s not feeling well,” she tells Hunter in a loud whisper, skipping over to him.

“Quiet like mice?” he whispers, smiling.

Clambering onto his lap, Morgan hums in agreement. “I want mac ‘n’ cheese for dinner. Can we, please, Hunter?”

“Sure. We need some vegetables too, though.”

Morgan hums testily, but nods.

“What do you say we go get dinner started then, and let Peter rest for a bit, hm?” Hunter asks, casting Peter a quick look, brows furrowed. 

“We still have to be mice in the kitchen!” Morgan warns. “We can only make noise outside.” 

“We can do that. We’ll be like _Ratatouille_.”

She claps her hands, laughing. “Yes!”

Hunter gives her a gentle push. “Let’s clean up here real quick first, yeah?”

Peter automatically stands up to help gather the props scattered around the room, but Hunter walks over and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Pete. Why don’t you go upstairs for a bit? It’ll be quieter.”

It’s a harmless touch, Peter _knows_ this, but his body rejects it violently, and he shrugs the hand off him in a jerky movement, stepping away. Despite everything, leaving Morgan with him on her own feels like defeat, but he _does_ need a moment. His head hurts, and he thinks he might either start crying or throw up in the next minute.

“I’m just going to put my bag upstairs,” he says. Any attempt at intimidation is lost with the obvious tremor in his voice. 

Hunter raises a hand again, but lets it drop to his side. “OK. Take your time. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

After a quick trip to the bathroom, Peter sinks onto the bed—_his_ bed. He has a room in the house, all his own. Because  Mr Stark had made room for Peter in his life... yet Peter keeps messing up.

He remembers being afraid when Skip had told him his aunt and uncle would be revolted and mad if they found out, but the reality had almost been worse. Because Peter could understand that—he was disgusted at himself too, and how couldn’t they be mad, when he had let Skip do those things to him? But if they were disgusted, they kept it to themselves, and most of what filtered down to Peter was their guilt—they weren’t angry at him, they were angry at themselves.  Dropped into their laps, Peter had known he was an unwelcome burden to begin with—he knew he wasn’t like other children too, that he was _difficult—_and somehow he had managed to make it even worse. Peter has never forgiven himself for putting May and Ben through that. 

And now he is ruining things with Mr Stark too. Tonight would get back to him, and he would wonder why Peter thought he had any right to go to his house like this and be rude to Hunter, whom he likes. Hunter who is nothing like Skip. 

“FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Peter?”

Peter rubs at his forearms, which are crawling with a phantom touch. “You’ve never… seen…” His chest feels too tight for a deep breath. “Hunter’s good with Morgan, right?” he asks in a small voice. 

“His actions are consistent with qualified and attentive child care, and she shows signs of comfort and happiness with him.”

He’s flooded with relief, certain at last: Morgan is safe. 

It doesn’t help the claustrophobic feeling he is battling, though, even as he reminds himself that he is safe too. Skip was a long time ago. For the past week, however, he has felt all too close. 

Peter presses the heels of his palms to his burning eyes, pushing back the tears that threaten to spill over, but unable to hold back a whine. It’s not enough. 

Pulling the duvet over his head, he curls up in a tight ball on the bed, focusing on the smell and texture of the sheets, and the sounds of the house, which have become so familiar by now. He might not deserve it, but he_ is_ home at Mr Stark’s place. He reminds himself he’s sixteen, not nine, and he’s even got superpowers now—_he’s fine. _

He’s so preoccupied he doesn’t hear Morgan come up, and his heart jumps to his throat when out of nowhere there’s a weight on him, over the covers, holding him down, shaking him. It’s a few seconds before it registers. 

“Peter! I know you’re there. You’re so bad at hide and seek.” Morgan giggles, tugging at the duvet. 

Wincing at the light as he emerges, Peter gives a weak laugh. “Hey, you found me, little mouse.” He wipes a bit of sauce off her cheek. “You’re just very good at hide and seek.”

Morgan nods, but a small line appears between her eyebrows as she looks at him. “You look sad,” she says, almost accusingly.

Peter smooths out the furrow on her brow, desperately wanting to reassure her. “I’m not sad, Morg. Just feeling a bit sick,” he lies.

“You _do_ look sick,” Morgan agrees after considering him for a long moment, drawing another small laugh out of Peter. 

As it dies out, though, the weight settles back on his shoulders. 

“Morgan, you… you _are_ OK, right?” he asks in a hushed voice, touching her cheek, studying her carefully. He remembers how he felt with Skip, the hollowed out feeling that consumed him, the constant fear... Her eyes seem clear. “You know you can tell me anything.”

“I’m hungry,” she replies, without hesitation, the word a whine. “Hunter says dinner’s ready. Come eat, come _on._”

“Pete, there you are. Feeling any better?” 

Peter skirts around Hunter in the kitchen, unable to muster more than a vague mumble in response to his greeting. 

He prompts Morgan to set the table, having developed a routine with her: he hands her the different items and she arranges them on the table. 

“Do you mind getting the drinks, Pete?” Hunter asks as he stirs the sauce into the pasta. “I’ll just have whatever you two are having.”

“What do you want to drink, Morg?” Peter goes over to the cupboard for a pair of glasses, the back of his neck prickling in spite of himself when he has to turn his back on Hunter. 

“Orange juice, and pineapple juice, and mango juice, and coffee—”

That surprises a short, quiet laugh out of Peter. “Morgan, you can’t have coffee.”

“Daddy let me have a sip once,” she announces, chest puffing up with pride.

“Did you like it?” Peter can’t help but ask. 

Morgan makes a face. “It’s so yucky.”

His grin is still a little strained, but it comes naturally. “So you _don’t_ want coffee.”

“No, silly!” she replies, giggling. “I don’t want any of that.” 

“Alright, so, what _do_ you want?” 

“You have to guess.”

Her miming tells him nothing, but there can be no mistake when she moos. Still, he teases: “I don’t have a clue.”

“Yes you do! The cow goes moo!” Morgan singsongs, dancing around with the napkins as she throws them on the table. 

“So, milk.” Peter turns around to find Hunter smiling too, and the smile drops right off his face—Hunter’s smile is soft, where Skip’s was sharp, but he can’t help but recoil. He keeps his head down, his stomach in knots as they sit down to eat. 

Morgan makes an appreciative sound. “Smells so yummy.”  


“Thanks, poppet,” Hunter replies, leaning over to ruffle her hair. 

Peter remembers Skip doing the same—and also the fingers twisting in his curls, tight and painful. He forces himself to eat, though he can’t even taste the food, while Morgan tells him about going on a treasure hunt in the morning out in the forest. “We walked for _hours_—” 

“You did?” Peter interrupts, confused. 

“Mhm.”

Hunter laughs. “It was forty minutes tops, promise.” He grins as he offers Peter the basket of bread. “You can’t take a five year old’s stories so literally, Pete.”

Peter flushes. “Right, thanks,” he says tightly, taking the basket and passing it on to Morgan. 

“And we saw so many squirrels. And a fox.” Morgan carries on.

“A fox?” Peter asks skeptically. 

“Yes! It was so pretty.” 

Despite himself, Peter glances at Hunter for confirmation. 

“We did, actually.”

“Wow, that’s pretty cool, Morgan,” Peter tells her earnestly.

But Morgan turns her nose up at him. “You didn’t believe me.” 

Peter twists the napkin in his fingers, his stomach roiling. He’s become familiar with five year old touchiness and mood swings—though he still sometimes needs Pepper or Tony to reassure him Morgan doesn't _actually_ hate him—but tonight it hits him hard. He feels like he can’t do anything right. “I’m sorry, Morg. I’ve never seen a fox. I didn’t know there were any around this area.” 

Morgan harrumphs, biting into a piece of bread. 

Hunter waves a hand, rolling his eyes, his mouth stretched like he is holding back laughter. ‘It’ll pass in about a minute’ he mouths, before clearing his throat, and saying out loud: “So, Pete, how was your day? No foxes, but anything else interesting?”

The last thing Peter wants is to make conversation, but if it will get Morgan to talk to him again, he'll do it. “Uh. You mean, like, school?”

“Sure, or anything else.”

“What did you have for lunch?” Morgan pipes up, nibbling on her bread. 

“Um.” Peter can’t actually remember. “Some kind of chicken wrap… I think?”

Hunter’s mouth and eyebrows twitch. “You think?”

“I wasn’t… really paying attention, there was a really cool article in Chemistry World about synthetic polymer chains…” It had been the one moment all day he had been able to relax for longer than fifteen minutes, but now he feels ridiculous and _not normal_—out of place. He wants nothing more than to go back to his room, but Morgan is still eating. 

“You said you were in high school?” Hunter shakes his head, chuckling. “I was reading comic books back then. You’re a regular Einstein, aren’t you?”

Peter stares down at his plate, his ears ringing. “I just really like science,” he says, voice hollow.

Hunter clears his throat again, but when Peter sneaks a glance at him he sees this timehe isn’t smiling. “That’s cool, Pete.”

“Can I have some more, please?” Morgan holds her plate out to Hunter, who quickly takes it. 

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Peter picks out and separates the broccoli in his pasta mechanically. Skip used to call him Einstein—it had seemed a compliment at first, an endearment, like May calling him sweetie, and Ben buddy and champ. He couldn’t remember what his parents called him, if anything. But with time it had come to seem mocking: Peter was supposed to be smart, a genius, in fact… and yet he was so stupid, and powerless against Skip.

When Peter looks up, Hunter is staring at him again. 

“There’s some chicken Pepper cooked yesterday, if you prefer,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” Peter answers shortly. Then new guilt washes over him. Hunter is only being nice, and Peter is being irrational and unfair. “Sorry, Hunter, it’s good, honestly.” His voice shakes, and he needs to take a sip of milk to continue. “Thanks for making dinner. I just… can’t shake this headache.”

“Don’t worry about it, we all have off days.”

“Do you need Seamus again?” Morgan asks sweetly, making Peter both redden and have to bite his trembling lower lip hard.

“I’m good, Maguna, thank you.” 

As they clear the table, Peter discovers Hunter had promised Morgan a bit of TV before her bath and bed time. He wavers for a moment—fast approaching a breakdown, he is desperate to retreat to his bedroom. But Morgan decides for him: taking his hand, she leads him back to the living room, prattling about her show.

Peter sits on the floor next to Morgan, who lies on her stomach, doodling while she watches the program. It’s a kid’s show, which means it’s loud and bright enough to make Peter wince, while the smell of crayons seems to stick to the back of his throat.  It feels like a long time, and no time at all, as he alternates between staring sightlessly at the TV screen and looking at Morgan, who hums and sings along, and giggles—carefree and content. 

“Alright, apple pie, it’s time for bed.” Hunter stands up, stretching with a groan, when the show ends. “Why don’t you head up and pick a book for bedtime while we clean up here?” 

Morgan doesn’t hesitate to leave crayons and papers strewn on the rug, scrambling to her feet. “I want Pippi! Pippi Longstocking!” She starts to run out, then turns back at the door, and, without warning, Peter gets an armful of five year old. “You’ll come say good night later, right, Peter?” she asks, wide eyed and pouting. 

Peter can only nod into her hair, holding her close for a second until she squirms out of his arms. He counts her steps as she runs up the stairs and to her room, before his eyes slide over to Hunter. 

“You don’t have to clean up. I just wanted her out of the room—” Hunter takes a step forward, and Peter tenses, his breath catching in his chest, fingers digging into the thick rug as he readies himself to jump to his feet. “I couldn’t bring them out with her here.” Reaching into a drawer of the wooden coffee table, he pulls out a box of chocolates. “It’s a secret stash, just for the grown ups.”

Bile rises to Peter’s throat, though his body is frozen. That had been how it started, Skip pretending he was letting Peter in on some secret for grown ups. 

“You like chocolate, right?” Hunter asks, holding the open box before Peter. “It’s mint.”

Peter takes one and brings it to his mouth automatically. He hates mint.

“Are you staying the night?” Hunter waves the box for him to take another. The chocolate is too strong for his taste, and mint makes him nauseated, but Peter still takes another one. “I’m going to put Morgan to bed, but you can stay up longer if you want. How old are you, fourteen, fifteen?” Hunter continues making conversation as he picks up Morgan’s crayons and papers. 

“Sixteen,” Peter corrects him. Maybe if he keeps repeating it to himself it will feel real: He’s sixteen, not nine. And Hunter isn’t Skip. 

“And it’s Friday, so I’m guessing that means an open bedtime?” Hunter is careful with Morgan’s drawings, Peter notices, humming in response to the question. 

He knows he should be helping, but his body just won’t cooperate.

“Or you can go to bed, if you’re still not feeling well…”

Peter only then realises he must have been rocking during the show, because he’s shifted the sofa back several inches. It’s something he tries to avoid doing unless it’s with May or Ned, or Tony now, and the slip up makes him feel even less in control. 

“Hunter!” Morgan shouts from upstairs.

Hunter gives him a long look, mouth in a long line. “The lady calls,” he says finally. “You’ll be alright?”

“Mhm.”

Arms wrapped around himself, picking at the fabric of his sweatshirt, Peter listens to the bedtime preparations upstairs with half an ear. The nausea keeps building, and his throat hurts from holding back tears. He wants Aunt May or Tony so, so badly—he could do with one of Ned’s hugs too—but none of them are here. And Peter feels bad for wishing they were, because he doesn’t want to burden them with any of this either. But he feels so alone… and so… sick. 

He has to dash to the guest bathroom, where he throws up dinner, and it feels like whatever it was he had had for lunch as well. His eyes burn with tears as he dry heaves on his knees over the toilet, the pounding in his head hitting full force. 

“Pete, you alright?” Hunter’s voice filters through after a while. 

“Please don’t call me that,” Peter moans, letting himself drop to a seated position, leaning against the wall. He doesn’t know Hunter, he has no right calling him that. 

Hunter clears his throat. “I’m sorry. Morgan’s waiting for you to come tuck her in—why don’t you come out? I can make you some tea if your stomach’s upset.” 

Drawing his knees up, Peter releases a shuddering breath. “Sorry, b-but can you just… please leave me alone?” he stutters. “Please.”

The light bothers him so much, but the switch is outside. He tries to block the light out with his arms, face pressed against his knees. It helps little, and nothing to block out the noise—the knock on the door like a hammer to his head. 

“Peter. Buddy. I need to make sure you’re alright,” Hunter says in a soft voice.

Peter grips his hair until his scalp hurts. He just wants it all to stop. “Please, just—” He is out of words. He curls tighter into himself as a whine escapes his throat. 

After a minute, he hears Hunter walk away. 

Peter feels a sob build in his chest. He’s supposed to be here for Morgan, but he can’t even bring himself to go up and say good night. 

And the light _hurts_. 

He doesn’t think it through, the decision to climb the wall to unscrew the light bulb. Though the glass is hot to the touch, it's doesn't burn, but he isn’t in control of his strength, and it shatters in his hand. 

Peter wraps his bleeding hand in the bottom of his sweatshirt, knowing the cuts will heal soon enough. The pain in his head and stomach is more pressing, but it’s the fact that he can’t seem to do anything right that has him sinking back to the floor.

He remembers hiding in the bathroom sometimes when he was little, because the bedroom was where the bad things happened. 

It’s been seven years, he should be over it… but he isn’t. Not today. He starts crying abruptly, violent sobs that come in waves and leave him wheezing in between. No matter how much he tries to stop, he can’t—the dam has burst. 

Peter gives up, and lets himself cry.


	2. Chapter 2

“Kid? Peter?” It’s instinct to try to open the door again—for the fourth time in the last minute—but it remains locked. Tony stands with his ear against the door, fingers curled around the door handle. For a long minute he can’t hear anything over the thumping of his heartbeat in his temples, then he catches a light rustle of clothes from inside the bathroom. “Pete?”

“Mr Stark?” Peter’s voice is hoarse and nasal—and much too hesitant. 

Tony had come home as fast as he physically could, but it's still too long when his teenaged kid has been locked in the bathroom having a nervous breakdown for close to an hour.

“Yeah, Spider-baby.” The nickname slips out, though he realises as it crosses his lips how peculiar it might sound if Hunter were to overhear. He knows Peter likes it, however. And it’s something only Tony ever calls him, which might help ground him. “It’s me. I’m here, kid. Can you open the door for me, please?” 

His ears strain to catch the quiet whine. “Mr S-stark… I… I’m _so_ s-sorry.” On top of the nervous stutter, it sounds like his teeth are chattering. 

Tony needs his kid out of there right now. Pushing against the locked door with his shoulder even though he knows it won’t open, he shushes him. “Apologies later, alright, kid?” _Or never._ He has no idea what is going on, but he knows the kid has no reason to apologise. “Please just open the door, Pete?”

It seems like forever, long enough Tony is considering going for his tool kit and just taking the door off its hinges—then the lock clicks open. 

Peter looks a mess: hair matted with sweat, and face ashen except for the splotch of pink of his nose and eyes, swollen from crying. Tony notices immediately the blood on his tee shirt where it’s wrapped around his right hand, held tight to his stomach.

“_Kid._” Tony doesn’t think twice before pulling him against his chest, wrapping his arms around him in a fierce hug. 

It takes a moment for Peter to relax. All the energy seeming to drain out of him, he crumples, clutching at the back of Tony’s suit jacket with a whimper. Over his shoulder, Tony catches sight of the broken glass from the light bulb on the floor.

“It’s OK, Pete. It’s OK…” Tony murmurs, lips pressed to his hair. He rocks them in place for a couple of minutes, keeping his arms tight around Peter as he cries weakly into Tony’s chest, which aches at the plaintive sound.

He doesn’t pull back until Peter has calmed down a bit—and only enough to carefully wipe the tear tracks on his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket. “Let’s get you upstairs, yeah?” he suggests, thumbing under his eyes.

Peter lets Tony lead him up to his bedroom with an arm around his shoulders. In a bit of a daze, he needs prompting to change into a warm, comfortable sleep shirt and pajama pants, though he dresses himself for the most part, before obediently getting into the bed.

“I’ll be right back,” Tony tells him, voice pitched low and reassuring. “Just going downstairs to get the first aid kit, and some tea to settle your stomach and get some sugar in you before you drop.” 

Propped up on the pillows and arms wrapped loosely around his middle, Peter keeps his eyes fixed on his lap, completely withdrawn. 

Tony reaches out to grip his shoulder. “Peter, you with me, Spider-man?”

It takes a few seconds, but Peter raises his eyes to Tony and nods at last. 

“OK.” The tightness in Tony’s chest loosens slightly—at least Peter’s responsive. “OK. I’ll be right back,” he repeats, before forcing himself to leave the room.

In the kitchen he finds Hunter sitting at the table with a pensive look on his face, nursing a cup of tea. “Tony!” He jumps to his feet, and holds out his hand for a quick handshake. “I’m really sorry, man. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You couldn’t do more. Don’t sweat it.” Tony waves a dismissive hand as he moves toward the cupboard to retrieve Peter’s favorite mug.

But Hunter continues in a nervous rush: “I don’t have much training with kids on the spectrum, to be honest—I didn’t even know Peter was—And I’m really not qualified to deal with mental health issues. I don’t even know what it is we’re talking about here…” 

Tony likes Hunter, but he doesn’t have time for this conversation. “Just make sure Morgan stays in her room, please?” he instructs, spooning sugar into the tea liberally. While Peter adores Morgan, he doesn’t think a five year old barging in is what he needs right now. 

“Of course. Morgan fell asleep a while ago, but I’ll keep an eye on her.” Hunter holds out the first aid kit, catching him by surprise. “Here,” he says. “I cleaned up the glass in the bathroom, double bagged it before sticking it in the trash.”

“Thanks, appreciate that.” Morgan has thrown a few tantrums before, but Tony has never seen Hunter look so rattled. Tony gives him a light tap on the arm as he exits the kitchen. “Get some rest, Hunter.”

Crossing the living room, Tony catches sight of the fish plush on the couch, and stops to pick it up. Peter would never say anything, but even Happy knows it’s his favorite.

He finds Peter as he had left him, aside from the fresh red stain on the tee shirt around his hand. Tony sits down, placing the first aid kit on his lap, and hands over the mug of tea and the fish. “Still bleeding?” he asks in surprise.

“There was a bit of glass,” Peter admits, tucking the plush under his elbow and clumsily wrapping both hands around the mug. 

“And you just yanked it out, didn’t you?” Tony holds back a sigh. “Let me see.”

Peter sips at the tea, shoulders by his ears. “It’s fine, Mr Stark, honest.” His speech is still unsteady, but clearer now that he’s blown his nose and had something to drink.

Tony holds out his hand. “It’s not up for discussion, ta ta.” The cuts aren’t deep, but he still takes the time to disinfect and wrap them up properly in gauze, giving Peter a chance to drink the tea in peace. 

Once done, he keeps Peter’s hand clasped between his own two, rubbing soothing circles on the thin skin of his wrist. He doesn’t even know how to ask—Tony hadn’t responded to Hunter’s comment, but he doesn’t know what they are dealing with either. While he’s familiar with Peter’s anxiety, and had encountered a full blown meltdown one time, this feels different. All he knows is that his kid needs him. 

In the end, Peter speaks up before him. “Did FRIDAY call you?” he asks in a tiny voice, fingers twitching in Tony’s hand.

“Hunter did, actually.”

“Oh.”

“He said you were sick.”

Peter rests the empty mug on his hip, tracing the handle with his thumb in a repetitive motion. “I think it was the mint that did it.”

“Did the mint make you lock yourself up in the bathroom too?” Tony asks, making sure to keep his voice gentle. 

Peter blinks at him over the rim of the mug, his face blank. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No. So you want to tell me what happened? Why you locked yourself in the bathroom?” he clarifies. 

“I just—” Peter takes a deep, shuddering breath, eyes downcast. “I didn’t know what to… do. I was… really overwhelmed.”

Tony gives his fingers a gentle, encouraging squeeze. “Let’s start at the beginning, yeah? Not to sound self centered, but you don’t usually come around when you know I’m not going to be here. What’s going on, kid?”

He hurries to rescue the mug when Peter recoils, curling up with the plush clutched to chest, running a shaking hand over the scales, up and down. 

At a loss, Tony can only look at him for a moment as he thinks hard. “Is it about Hunter?” he asks, the peculiar reaction Peter had had learning about the babysitter coming to mind. 

Peter swallows hard a few times, making Tony worry he’s going to be sick again. “I just had to make sure,” he says, his tone almost pleading.

“Make sure of what, kiddo?”

“T-that Morgan was safe.” 

Dread pools in the pit of Tony's stomach. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t… whatever this is, that he knows for sure. “Peter, why wouldn’t she be?”

“It happens sometimes…” Peter whispers, chin to his chest. 

“What?”

Tony can be impatient, but he knows to take things slow with Peter. The last thing he wants to do is upset him further. 

“You know. Babysitters who… who don’t take good care of the kids…” Peter picks at the stitching on the side fin, but is otherwise abnormally still. “who… hit them… or… or… molest them. It happens, sometimes.” 

His voice drops so low Tony almost misses the last part. But he hears it, and his stomach clenches painfully. “Did it happen to you?” he asks slowly. 

Eyes fluttering closed, Peter gives the tiniest nod.

“Oh Pete.”

There is no moment of sudden understanding—he had no idea. He could never have imagined that his kid had gone through that, that Peter carried this weight, on top of everything else. 

“I’m being stupid, it was ages ago…” Peter babbles, stuttering. 

“Kid, you’re _sixteen_,” Tony interrupts, pained. Ages ago… how old was he? What had that monster done to him? 

Peter sits up straighter, practically vibrating with tension. “Normally it’s f-fine, you know… most of the time. But since we talked… I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Because sometimes you just don’t know. And what if Morgan—I had to—”

“Peter, Peter, listen.” Tony waits until Peter gives him his attention before continuing: “We ran a full background check on Hunter, and FRIDAY is always watching. Morgan is safe. You don’t have to be worrying about that, OK?”

Peter studies his face carefully. “You’re sure?” he asks finally.

“I’m sure.”

After a minute Peter drops his gaze and shrinks back against the pillows. “Mr Stark, I’m so sorry, about… all this.” Sniffling, he rubs his eyes roughly with his uninjured hand. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for Hunter to bother you.”

Tony reaches out to cup his face, but Peter looks everywhere but at him. “He didn’t bother me. I’m glad he called—his instructions are to call if something is wrong with my kid… whichever one.”

That makes Peter meet his eyes again, wide eyed. Tony can feel his jaw trembling, and the wetness as a tear escapes and trails down his cheek. 

He remembers Titan, Peter stumbling toward him—in pain, just wanting to be held. Tony slides his hand back to his nape, and pulls him close, gathering him into a hug. Peter clutches at his back with a whimper, trembling—and it feels so reminiscent that for a second Tony can taste the dust and the blood, and the numbing fear. But he’s not losing Peter this time. Not this time. And this is another sort of pain he is going through.

“I’m sorry. I—everything reminded me of Skip. I felt so… scared. I couldn’t make it stop.” Peter continues in a rush, stumbling over the words, repeating himself. Again and again he apologises. All Tony can do is hold him closer. 

“You could have called me, kid. You can always call me. Any time.”

Peter shakes his head jerkily, whining. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I was afraid—”

Tony rubs between his shoulder blades. “What were you afraid of, Spider-baby?”

His breath hitches in a wet gasp. “That you wouldn’t want me around anymore,” he confesses, voice breaking on the last word.

“What? Why—” Tony pulls back to look at him. “Peter—”

“Who would?” Peter blurts out, voice shaking. “After—When I’m—Who wants to deal with this?” He touches a hand to his chest with a stuttering inhalation, and the disgust in his voice makes Tony’s chest ache. “Aunt May didn’t really have a choice, she was stuck with me. But you do—”

“Kid, look at me.” Tony is aware Peter is not huge on eye contact sometimes, but he doesn’t know how else to let him know. “You’re my kid, Peter. You’re _my kid_,” he repeats, emphatic. “Do you know what that means? It means this—” He waves a hand between them. “—isn’t temporary or conditional. It means I got you, kid. No matter what.”

A sob escapes Peter, then another one, and Tony guides him down to lay against his chest as he cries. “It means you’re stuck with me now, no take backs,” he continues, tone a little lighter, but every bit as earnest. 

He combs his fingers through Peter’s curls, gentle, comforting. Tony has held Morgan like this, after a nightmare about the monster in her closet. But Peter’s monster is all too real, and he isn’t going to just grow out of his fear. 

“Hm, what was that?” he asks, scratching lightly at his scalp when he feels more than hears Peter mumble something. “Spider-baby?” The name has never seemed more apt as Tony feels the pull on his tee shirt when Peter literally unsticks himself, before twisting his fingers around the fabric in a new grip around his middle.

“Love you, Tony,” Peter squeaks, then hides his face against Tony’s chest..

Tony presses a kiss the top of his head. “I love you too, Pete.” It’s easier, since Morgan, to say those words to his family—easier since he lost Peter. He should have said it from the moment he got him back. “I love you,” he repeats. “And nothing’s going to change that.”

There is a pronounced quaver in Peter’s voice. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Tony replies. And he means it.

“Even if… if it was all my fault?”

Smoothing his curls back from his face, Tony thumbs at his cheek. “Peter, you were abused, as a child.”

Peter shakes his head, shoulders hunching. “I was n-nine, I should’ve… done something, I don’t know. I was so stupid, I thought he was m-my friend. And I couldn’t—I just l-let it happen, for m-months—” 

A lump rises to Tony’s throat, threatening to choke him. But he pushes it down, forces himself to take a deep breath—his kid needs him. “It wasn’t your fault. Peter, listen to me, it could never, ever be your fault.” Rubbing his back in slow, calming circles, he can feel him trembling, rigid with tension. 

It’s a couple of minutes before Peter speaks again. “It hurt,” he whimpers, almost inaudible, like a confession. It’s like a punch to the gut. “It still hurts.”

Tony hates that he can’t do anything but hold him. “It will hurt less over time, Pete. I promise. I promise.”

Sniffling, Peter hugs him tight. “I’m sorry—”

“Shh.” Tony starts stroking his hair again, and can’t help the sigh of relief when Peter falls silent. “You think you can get some sleep?” he asks after a bit.

Peter shifts a little to a more comfortable position, head pillowed on Tony’s stomach. “That feels good,” he murmurs, with a small, appreciative sound.

A small smile tugs at his lips, in spite of everything. “I’ll keep doing it, then.” 

“Mm. Thank you, Mr Stark.”

It doesn’t take long before Peter’s breathing evens out, and his body goes slack in sleep. Tony himself feels drained—he can’t begin to imagine Peter’s levels of exhaustion, physical and mental. 

Peter doesn’t stay down for long, however. About twenty minutes later, he suddenly jolts with a gasp, and grasps at Tony, fingers sticking to his clothes.

“I’m here, Spider-baby.” Tony soothes, rubbing his back. “Not going anywhere.”

It happens one more time in the next hour, waking Tony from his light drowse. He has to get up a short while after, when he can’t ignore the demands of his bladder any longer. 

He doesn’t fight the need to check up on Morgan, afterwards. Though he tiptoes into the bedroom, he isn’t surprised when she blinks awake as he brushes a bit of hair from her face. Morgan is a light sleeper. 

“Daddy!” Scrambling up to her knees, she loops her arms around his neck. 

“Hey, little miss.” Tony kisses both of her cheeks and then her nose, before tipping her back onto the bed, making her giggle. He holds his finger to his mouth, pulling a comical face when she playfully tries to resist getting under the covers. “Ah ah, we have to be very quiet—your brother’s asleep.”

Morgan throws herself back on the bed like a starfish, but nods. “Quiet like mouses.”

“Mice is it now?” Tony asks with a chuckle.

“Spiders are kind of icky.”

“I’ve grown fond of them,” he replies with a rueful smile. “You had a good day, baby?”

“Mhm. Missed you and Mommy. But we played a lot. It was fun.” Tony is happy to let her ramble on about what she had done with Hunter, though tonight keeping up the proper enthusiastic reaction requires a greater effort—when a part of him is thinking about what it must be like to find out the person you had entrusted with your child had been hurting them instead. He can’t stop thinking of nine year old Peter being hurt for months. Of sixteen year old Peter still hurting. 

Morgan doesn’t take offense when Tony interrupts her, gathering her into a hug. “That sounds great, baby,” he says, kissing the top of her head. A knot in his stomach, he pulls back to look at her face. “If—You can always tell me anything, you know that, right, Morgan? If you’re sad, or scared, you come to me.”

Round eyed, Morgan nods. Then her mouth twists to a side. “Peter was sad today, Daddy.”

“Yes, he was,” he confirms gravely.

“Why?” 

Tony sighs, forces himself to smile reassuringly. “He just had a bad day, honey.”

Morgan considers him for a long moment before nodding, but he can tell she isn’t satisfied with his answer. “I don’t want you asking him about it, Maguna, alright?” he says, widening his eyes in warning. “Please. Promise me.”

“OK.” She makes a face, but holds out her pinkie. “Promise.”

“Thank you.” With another kiss to her cheek, Tony tucks her back into bed.

“Will you make pancakes tomorrow?” Morgan asks when he pauses at the door. “Peter loves pancakes, that will make him happy.” 

Tony chuckles, and taps a finger to his nose with a smile. “That’s a very good idea. I’ll make a big breakfast for the three of us.”

Morgan wiggles into a more comfortable position, smiling. “Good. Love you lots, Daddy.”

“Love you too.”

Once he has made sure Peter is still asleep, Tony slips downstairs to call Pepper in the kitchen, where there is less chance of waking anyone up. He sits at the table, holding the tablet with both hands. 

The adrenaline that had hit him upon receiving that nerve wracking call has run out, and his body feels as heavy as his heart.

Even though it’s nearing midnight, Pepper picks up at the first ring, probably waiting for him to call since he had texted her he was heading home ahead of schedule. “Tony, what happened? Is everything alright? Is Morgan OK?” 

“Yep. She’s good, Pep.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s Peter. He was sick.”

“Oh. Is he OK? I didn’t know he was going over today,” Pepper says with a small frown of confusion.

“Yeah, me neither.” 

“Tony. What happened?”

“He had... a bit of a breakdown, I guess.” He can’t really think of another way to put it.

Pepper winces sympathetically. “One of his… sensory overloads?” 

“No. Well, that too, probably. But… not just that.” Tony wants to tell Pepper about everything—he _needs_ to talk to her about it—but he doesn’t know where to start. “He’s been stressed out all week… worrying about Morgan.”

“Worrying about Morgan, why? Is she alright?” she asks again, sharply. 

“She’s perfect, Pep. Honestly. You know FRIDAY’s got an eye—hundreds of eyes—on her. Morgan’s fine.”

Pepper’s frown doesn’t disappear. “So why was Peter worrying?”

“He had a… a bad experience with a babysitter, that’s why.” His tone is snappish with a sudden rush of anger—at himself for beating about the bush, at the man who had taken advantage of his child.

Used to his outbursts—though they have been rare since the Snap—Pepper doesn’t bat an eyelid. “What do you mean a bad experience?” she asks quietly.

“He was abused.” Saying it out loud releases all the sorrow he has been holding back, and his voice shakes as he elaborates: “Sexually.”

Pepper breathes out an expression of horror and sympathy. But Tony can’t quite process her words, his breathing quickening as everything rushes out. “He was _nine_, Pepper. Nine years old. His babysitter… raped him, for months. And fucked with his mind too—He thought if I found out I wouldn’t want him anymore—” He wheezes, one hand curled into a fist, fingernails digging into his palm, and the other grasping at his chest. 

“Tony—_Tony_, you need to breathe.” Pepper guides him through his breathing exercises, until he gets himself under control. 

They sit in silence for a couple of minutes, the faint sound of the ticking clock from the living room in the background.

“How is he now?” she asks in the end. 

Tony shrugs listlessly. “As expected, I suppose. He’s asleep, at least. Tired himself out. There were a lot of tears. I… didn’t... I didn’t know what to do.”

Pepper’s eyes crease with compassion. “He just needed you to be there, Tony. He probably just needed to feel safe again.”

“I love him, Pep,” Tony chokes out. “You know I never thought… with my dad—But now I have two kids—” He breaks off with a slightly hysterical breath of laughter. The man known as The Merchant of Death would have bet first on becoming a superhero than a dad. Yet here he is. 

Pepper smiles. “I guess you do.”

Tony stares for a moment at his clasped hands—that can do so much, but can’t do anything here. “I'm just trying to be there for him.”

Pepper’s voice is so soft he can almost feel it, the light kiss she would give him if she were there. “That’s all you need to do.” 

Tony doesn’t get much sleep in the end. 

After a quick look to make sure Morgan was safe and sound—and asleep—he had gone to check on Peter, and found him tangled in the sheets, shivering, with the pillows and duvet both on the floor. 

Still half asleep, Peter stirs when Tony covers him again. “Mr Stark?” he slurs, peering up at him in the gloom.

Tony doesn’t even bother to change out of his clothes. Sat up against the headboard, he strokes Peter’s hair until he falls asleep again. He spends the night drifting in and out of sleep between rounds of soothing Peter’s restless sleep, until around half past eight when he has no choice but to get up and stretch out his back.

Kneading the back of his neck, he peers into Morgan’s room on his way to the bathroom—only to find it empty, FRIDAY cuts his panic in the bud, informing him she’s playing outside with Hunter.  He can see her from the window, in pink rain boots and rain coat. Cracking it open, he lets the sound of her laughter sweep into the house along with the crisp, autumn wind. 

Having Morgan had helped Tony get used to earlier mornings, but he still needs the shower and change of clothes to finish waking him up, before heading down to the kitchen to get started on preparing breakfast. Morgan can’t stay outside forever, and the moment she steps back inside, Peter will be up too—though she tries, Morgan is rarely quiet like a mouse, let alone a spider. 

As it is, Peter wanders in around twenty minutes later, still in his pajamas, and looking much too pale. “Hi—” he croaks. Then tries again after clearing his throat. “Sorry. Hi.”

“Hey, Spider-baby.” Tony greets him, extending an arm in invitation while he oil sprays the pan for the scrambled eggs. Peter hesitates, but soon rushes to his side, burrowing into the one armed hug. “How’re you feeling, kid?”

“Hungry. Smells good.”

“Bacon’s almost done, and scrambled eggs will be up in a minute.” He presses a kiss to the side of his head, before giving him a light push toward the cupboard. “Go and get yourself something to drink.”

Peter is lacking most of his usual morning animation, his movements lethargic. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, he curls around his glass of milk, shoulders rounded.  Tony is counting out toast when he speaks. “Thanks for breakfast, Mr Stark. And… and for last night. And… everything.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything, kid,” Tony replies, popping a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. He has learnt it is generally a lost cause trying to convince Peter not to apologise or give excessive thanks, so he carries on: “Cheese, sausage, ham, with your eggs?” 

There’s no answer, except, after a few seconds, a quiet sniffle—followed by a fit of hiccuping sobs. Tony turns around in alarm. “Hey, _hey._” Removing the pan from the stove, he hurries over to Peter, wrapping his arms around him so that his head rests on Tony’s shoulder. 

“Sorry. I-I don’t even know why I’m c-crying,” Peter stammers. “Everything feels…”

“A bit fresh all over again?” Tony hazards, voice gentle. He remembers after his parent’s deaths. After Afghanistan and New York. How everything can feel so far, or so _present. _

Peter nods with a whimpering sound of assent.

Sighing, Tony rubs Peter’s back as he composes himself, slowly. “It’s OK. You’re alright, Spider-baby.”

The back door banging open startles them both. Peter starts, sticking to Tony for a second before detaching himself with a tug. “Sorry—” he gasps.

Tony keeps a grounding hand on the back of his neck. “It’s fine, Pete, relax.”

“Daddy! We saw frogs! I wanted to bring them home, but Hunter wouldn’t let me—“ Morgan bounds inside after struggling out of her rain boots at the door step. Then her eyes fall on Peter. “Oh. Peter, you’re still sad.”

Peter wipes at his eyes impatiently with the back of his hand. “Sorry, Morg,” he says shakily. “Did you say you saw frogs?”

Morgan nods at his brave attempt, but looks to Tony with a frown. “_Da_ddy. Where are the pancakes?” she demands. 

“Right you are.” Tony lets out a laugh.  “Morgan says pancakes will help,” he tells Peter, ruffling his hair gently.

Peter manages a faint smile. “Yeah. She’s probably right.” When Hunter steps inside, his smile wavers, but he raises a hand in a tiny, shy wave. “Hi,” he says, though he keeps his eyes averted.

“Hey, bud,” Hunter greets him in a careful voice, hands deep in his pockets.

Climbing on the chair next to Peter, Morgan inspects him with narrowed eyes. “Are you still sick?” she asks. 

“I’m good, little mouse, promise,” Peter answers, reaching over to fix her headband.

One glance at Morgan tells Tony she remains unconvinced. “We can play LEGO later,” she offers. 

“I’d like that.”

As he walks over to the fridge for more eggs, Hunter catches Tony’s eye. He tilts his head, gesturing toward the door. “Tony, I’m heading out then, if you don’t need me to stick around?”

Tony follows him out into the hall. “Sure you don’t want any breakfast?” 

Hunter declines, and Tony can’t help but be grateful—Peter needs some space. And Pepper will be back after lunch, for when he inevitably needs a break from Morgan too.

At the door, Hunter hesitates. “Tony, about Peter… was it something I did? I—”

Tony shakes his head. “Don’t take it personally. He just had a… really tough week.”

Hunter sighs as he grabs his umbrella from the stand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more help last night. I feel like I could have done more…”

“You did what you had to do, which was call me.” Tony holds out his hand for a quick shake. “We’re good, Hunter.”

Morgan comes running to say goodbye to Hunter when he calls out he’s leaving. As he kneels so she can give him a hug, Tony wonders how May and Ben could trust anyone else with Peter again, after Skip. 

He carries Morgan back to the kitchen perched on his hip, smiles when she smacks a kiss on his cheek and presses her cheek to his with a content little sigh. His little girl, at least, is happy.

Tony pauses at the kitchen door. Peter is rocking in his seat, reading something on his phone. Even though he seems calmer, his body language is more withdrawn than usual.

He hadn’t been idle, however. Crossing steps off the by now familiar breakfast routine, he had set out a plate stacked with toast, a bowl with blueberries and raspberries, sliced a banana and prepared a straw cup with juice for Morgan, and started the coffee machine for Tony.

“You’re something else, kid,” Tony breathes out fondly. He puts Morgan down on the chair, instructing her to sit, then brings Peter in for a quick hug. “That was a compliment,” he clarifies automatically. “Thanks for helping with breakfast, Pete.”

Peter tilts his head up to look at him, offering him a small smile. “It’s the least I can do, Mr Stark.” His eyes are still pink and a bit swollen, though he had splashed some water on his face, going by the wet curls at his hairline. 

Tony has enough demons of his own to know that the kind of pain Peter is feeling, with everything he has gone through, is never going to go away completely. But it _can_ get better. And maybe Tony can help with that. 

He presses a kiss to his forehead, and then does the same to Morgan. “Pancakes coming up!” he announces. “A truckload.”

Morgan cheers, and Peter breathes out a laugh. 

Tony doesn’t know if the wonder of having this family will ever wear off. All he knows is he's going to do everything he can to keep them safe and happy. “Alright, who wants chocolate chips?”

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't meant to be this long, I don't know what happened. 
> 
> If you like, kudos and comments are very much appreciated, thank you!


End file.
